His Last Goodbye
by chaoticfrackery
Summary: This story will chronicle the 'missing' time between Magnussen's murder and the re-appearance of Moriarty. The relationship between John and Sherlock will escalate in each chapter and there will be roughly 5-6 chapters. I hope people enjoy it enough to leave praise and/or critique. Thank you x #johnlock
1. The Morning Before And After

The Last Goodbye Part 1

Sherlock felt adolescent again. Like a child. He recalled the painful way that people had talked down to him; as if he wasn't smarter than them, more advanced than them; couldn't tell whose spouse was cheating and with whom... So no, he didn't want to play with the other children at the party.

Sherlock, interlocking his fingers beneath his chin to form a steeple, remembered all too well the disapproving looks and sideways glances that meant he wasn't "behaving" or being "normal". Instead of thanks for bringing intellectual conversation to the proverbial table, he was sent to his room.

Only Mycroft had shared in his pain and only he had smiled and told him what a good job he had done. Of course, his brother had added that they were all just wine-drinking bigots without an original idea between them: the memory made him smile.

Leaning back against the cold concrete, the detective let out a strangled sigh and let his hands fall to his knees. He wished the man who had tackled him would have been less brutal. On the other hand, at least he hadn't been shot - again. This led him back to that shark Magnussen: had he not done Britain, maybe even the world, a favour by shooting that walking encyclopaedia of pressure points and blackmail?

It felt like being wrongfully scolded and sent to his room all over again. Except the higher power was the British Government, not his parents, and he was a grown man and not the misunderstood child he had been.

Would they exile him? Most likely. It would be undoubtedly plastered all over the news by the end of the day, if it wasn't already. He had no real measure of how long he had been sitting on the wooden bench but it felt like all night. His limbs were stiff and tired, and he could feel the soreness emanating from his shoulder from when he had attempted to sleep on his side on the narrow bench.

He heard footsteps approaching the cell.


	2. A Reunion of Sorts

Just as quickly, the steps passed his room and the sound receded. Keeping a stiff upper lip, he sat back down and laid his hands back upon his knees in a composed and contained manner. Surely Mycroft was doing everything he could to get him out of here. Surely not, a voice inside his head chided, reminding him that his benevolent big brother had sat and watched him hang from chains whilst an enormous Serbian beat him to a pulp and _definitely_ enjoyed it.

Hours passed and more and more hammering footfalls came and went but Sherlock ignored them all in favour of sitting ramrod straight, eyes shut and hands floating over the air as his mind gestated theories of how his act would be punished. Would there be a trial? Would it be public? Would he-

The door opened and in strolled Mycroft, umbrella at his side and at least five trained professionals waiting outside, in case either of them tried anything, he supposed. His brother eyed the bench disdainfully and apparently opted to stay standing and after a quick gesture, the heavy metal door was closed and they were left alone.

"Oh Sherlock... You really do have a knack for trouble." His voice was steady, not a note of compassion or empathy.

Mycroft leant lightly on his umbrella, refusing to betray his tiredness to his little brother but he couldn't stop Sherlock from picking up on the way his eyelids drooped ever so slightly or the creases in his clothes from sitting in covert meeting after meeting to discuss the fate of the famous detective.

The two stared each other down before the younger cleared his throat and rose from his seat. "I think it runs in the family." replied Sherlock with a trace of humour, though there was no usual glimmer in his eye.

The question went unsaid. "We are having you transferred to a secure location until such time as you can be placed on a jet bound for an undisclosed country in Eastern Europe, so let's say you will be working off your debt to Britain by doing what you do best. Being Sherlock Holmes." remarked the elder Holmes, barely containing the condescension in his voice.

He turned to his side, rapping on the door with the handle of his umbrella, it opened and two armed guards entered to take Sherlock by the arms and half-dragged him out of the cell as Mycroft followed behind at a leisurely pace. "I shall see you on the 'morrow, brother mine." he said as Sherlock was bustled into a large black 4x4 with tinted windows.


	3. Nostalgia Can Hurt

Sherlock looked out of the window with uncertainty as the enormous vehicle came to a halt outside the door of 221 Baker St. Looking at the two storey apartment building was like looking upon a familiar face. A face he had come to associate with safety, security, home... John.

The dark-haired man visibly bristled at the thought that had wandered, unbidden, into his conscious mind, and as he slid gracefully from the 4x4, only turning to wave a cheery goodbye to his stony-faced jailers.

The smile on his face rapidly froze and shrank away as the car disappeared into the darkening afternoon. Turning on his heel, Sherlock pressed on through the front door (the knocker had obviously been tampered with, courtesy of Mycroft), resisting the urge to place the knocker askew, bolted up the stairs to flat 221B and stopped only once he had reached the top step.

Soft light radiated through the glass part of the door, only amplifying Sherlock's sense of loss; leaving meant leaving behind his chair, his flat... his John.

His eyes widened in surprise at how ridiculous he sounded, even in his own head. _Stop it._

He heard faint movements coming from the kitchen and decided it was time to stop wasting what free time he had by standing outside the door wondering why his mind kept circling back to a certain doctor...

Opening the door as softly as he could, Sherlock entered his beloved Baker Street, his eyes settled on the flickering fire as he took off his signature long, black coat and placed it on the back of his chair.

More noises sounded in the kitchen, half-hidden by the partition, though one door stayed open; allowing Sherlock a glimpse of knitted sleeve and rumpled trouser leg.

Settling down into his chair, Sherlock smiled behind the slender hand he'd pressed over his mouth and watched his companion of several years bustle about the tiny kitchen; apparently oblivious to the other man's presence.

And so he sat.

And smiled.

Simply content to watch and hold fast the memories of his too-brief time with John Hamish Watson.


	4. Home Means Baker St

Even though the other man was facing away from him, he could still deduce that John hadn't slept - his hair wasn't unkempt like it was after he'd had a good night's sleep. Idiot. He was no good to Sherlock if he was grumpy and snapping at him.

Clearing his throat in a decidedly British fashion, he watched with a careful, guarded gaze as John spun on the spot, his eyes landing dead on Sherlocks'. A miriad of emotions were laid bare in those eyes. Surprise; then a flicker of annoyance at having been decieved into thinking he was alone, then warmth. The warmth spread across his face and turned into a smile - shy and almost apologetic.

"You're home..." Another flash of annoyance momentarily clouded his eyes, "I mean, you're here. I'll, uh, I guess I'll put the kettle on. Tea?" John rambled as if it would somehow cause the detective to forget what he'd just let slip.

Home.

So John still thought of 221B as his home? The thought tickled him, though he tried to hide it as he loped over to the dimly lit kitchen.

John was busy cups and spoons, jars of tea bags and sugar; basically anything that wasn't covered in weapons grade chemicals or filled with the ashes of someone's "murdered" pet guinea pig.

Sherlock watched in fascination; nobody but John moved around this kitchen with such deft moves, ignoring the gruesome things other people recoiled from.

Watching him made Sherlock feel peaceful, as though he could just lay down and sleep there amongst the clattering of silverware and John's soft curses. It almost made him want to compose; to just pick up the delicate violin that sat propped up against his chair and just let his fingers pluck at the strings.

The thought caused him to smile again but wider this time and the right corner of his mouth lifted; pulled by his affection for John - his need to give him whatever he wanted and satiate his wanton lust for danger and thrill.

"What are you smiling at?" John's voice, full of suspicion, roused him from his silent reverie.


	5. Unsolved Mystery

The kettle whined impatiently, and the moment was gone.

Like so many other 'moments' that have been and gone in the history of time, it was ignored. Throats were cleared as they went about their business; John pouring the tea (making as little eye contact as humanly possible) and Sherlock leaning the flat of his stomach absently against the counter, drumming his fingers in a frenzied rhythm.

John took the tray laden with biscuits and tea, and walked soundlessly to the living room.

"John-" Started Sherlock with desperation evident in his voice.

"No, Sherlock. We are going to sit down and we are going to drink our tea quietly and then I am going to tell you what is going to happen." Replied his companion rapidly, taking Sherlock aback. Had he done something to upset John? Looking at John's face, he could determine nothing - and that bothered him.

So he sat.

And he drank his tea. Quietly.

Until he couldn't any more-

"- Have I done something to offend you?" John looked up from his half-empty cup in confusion.

Sherlock continued, "If it's for scientific purposes, for my research, you usually don't mind my staring." John could have sworn he heard hurt in his voice.

"Was it?"

"Was it what?"

John barely grappled with the urge to smirk boyishly. "Was it for scientific purposes?"

"Well... no." Replied a bashful Sherlock, gazing down into the dregs of his tea like the pattern made by the drowned leaves in the cup was the most interesting thing in the world.

John leant forward slowly, shifting to the edge of his seat and Sherlock watched as the shadows of the flames in the fireplace danced gently across his face. "Sherlock..."

And then Sherlock was in his lap, sitting just like Janine had sat in his. With Sherlock's limited experience, he was probably mimicking Janine in that one move. The thought made John's breath catch in his throat and Sherlock, who had been sitting inhumanly still, was set free from his invisible chains and John watched, spellbound, as the brilliant man's lips parted ever so slightly.

John felt the trembling that unmasked the nervousness coursing through Sherlock's body, and took pity. His hand rose to Sherlock's cheek, caressing the hard line of his jaw as he lured Sherlock closer and closer...

Till their lips met and a fire was lit inside them. Neither man could see anything beyond one another; hands feeling and probing the bodies that have been sacredly forbidden until now as they barely stop to take breaths.

Sherlock removes John's jumper as John snakes Sherlock's belt off and around his slim hips. And so it goes on till there is nothing left to remove but underwear... and socks.

"John? How does one remove socks in a seductive fashion?" Sherlock asks very seriously, his face so genuine that John nearly laughs aloud.

"Unsolved mystery." He replies, a small, crooked smile on his face.


End file.
